Friday Night & Saturday Morning
by HousePiglet
Summary: Wilson has an accident at House's apartment. House isn't sure how to deal with the aftermath.


**FRIDAY NIGHT & SATURDAY MORNING**

"Wilson?"

He was vaguely aware of somebody calling his name, but the voice seemed distant, and he wasn't sure where it was coming from. Besides, he wasn't entirely sure the voice was meant for him.

"Come on, Wilson! Open your eyes!"

There it was again; insistent, and a little louder now. There was something familiar about the voice, but Wilson was tired, and… Jesus, what the hell was that light in his face?

"Wake up, damn it!"

Wilson returned to consciousness with a rush, and opened his eyes to find House kneeling over him, frowning. House had a penlight in one hand, and his other hand was pressed against the side of Wilson's forehead, lifting Wilson's right eyelid as he moved the light from left to right in front of his face. Wilson groaned, and jerked his eyes away from the light, but the sudden movement made his head swim, and it was some moments before he could begin to process the information.

"House. What…?" he began, thickly, blinking now, and attempting to raise an arm to try to push House's hand away from his face. His arm was heavy, though, and didn't seem to want to go where he was sending it.

"Jesus, Wilson!" growled House, releasing a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding as he relaxed a little, and loosened his grip on Wilson's head. His tone was rough, but concern had rendered his eyes even larger in his face than they normally appeared. He shook his head and reached forwards to check Wilson's other pupil. "Hold still a minute." He lifted Wilson's left eyelid carefully, and leaned in closer for a few seconds, wielding the light again. Satisfied, he switched the penlight off, and tossed it over onto the table. "What the hell were you playing at, you idiot? I said pass the speaker down, not rip the bookcase off the fucking wall!" Taking a deep breath now, House sat back on his haunches, shaking a little, and surveyed Wilson, appraisingly.

Wilson looked a mess. He was lying on his back in a flurry of books and journals, at the foot of House's bookcase, and a heavy wooden speaker lay in pieces on the ground behind him. The point at which the speaker had made recent violent contact with Wilson was clearly visible in the form of a deep cut above his left eyebrow. A lump was still forming, and the first signs of a black eye were already noticeable on his face. Blood had spilled down over his chin and stained his tie and shirt, and it was running down the side of his forehead now, and pooling in the soft brown hair beside his ear.

Wilson's head hurt, and he tried to frown, but his normally placid features were already contorted into an expression of such pained confusion that most of the effect was lost in the broader impression of anguish and general dishevelment. He noted the jumble of books and journals scattered across the floor around him, though, and recent events began to fall hazily back into place.

"If you hadn't put the stupid thing up there in the first place…" he breathed, wincing, as he made an effort to gather himself together, and started to sit up. His stomach lurched suddenly, though, and the next moment he curled forwards, reaching towards his ribs, and began to retch. Immediately he felt strong hands gripping his shirt at the back of his shoulder, and the trousers in the small of his back, and then the hands were pulling him over, and rolling him firmly onto his side. Wilson retched again, and as he moved his head backwards, heaving, and struggling to catch his breath, he was dimly aware of House's knees pressing hard against his arm and ribs. Even as his stomach contracted, and emptied its contents onto House's floor, Wilson found the contact oddly comforting.

"Easy, Wilson. Calm down! Take a deep breath." House's tone was still sharp, but the signs of concern had deepened on his face, and his left hand began to move steadily backwards and forwards along Wilson's back, as with his right he balanced Wilson's weight against his knees.

Wilson lay back and tried to control his breathing. After a minute or so the nausea began to fade, and he began to relax slowly into House's body. House's left hand was now moving in reassuring circles against his back, and he felt the pressure of House's right hand squeezing him slightly where it held him warmly by the shoulder. He opened his eyes again and took a tentative breath, beginning to feel faintly ridiculous. "I think I'm OK, now, House," he said, a little hoarsely, and stumbling slightly over the words. "Can you help me sit up?"

"No. Just keep still and stay there a minute," growled House again, his free hand moving to Wilson's hips and pressing him firmly but gently back down towards the floor. "Are you hurting anywhere else?" he asked, and began to run his hands carefully along Wilson's spine and down his legs and arms, feeling for any sign of further injuries.

Wilson's head swam again, and he wasn't sure he could feel anything beyond the throbbing above his eye, so he lay forward onto House's knees and resigned himself to the examination. When House's hands reached his left wrist and squeezed, though, he flinched, and yelped in pain.

"Hurts, huh?" House took hold of Wilson by the shoulder and sat back a little, reaching towards the lamp with his left hand and angling it towards Wilson's arm. He gently pulled Wilson's right knee towards him and laid it at an angle on the ground. He then took Wilson's arm in his hands again, pushing the shirt sleeve carefully back and examining the wrist more closely. It was swollen, and already showing signs of bruising, and House could feel displaced bone beneath his fingers. "Congratulations, Wilson! It's broken," he announced a moment later. "You'll need an x-ray, but you're certainly going to be wearing a cast for at least a month."

If Wilson was upset by the revelation that he'd broken his left wrist he made no outward sign, and House's frown returned. After a moment he dipped a hand into his pocket and extracted his Vicodin. "Sorry, Wilson! No happy pills for you today," he said, loudly, rattling the bottle in Wilson's face as he shook one out into his palm and tipped his head back to swallow it dry. Wilson simply groaned and closed his eyes, though, and House's frown deepened further. He reached across, and began to push sticky hair up and out of Wilson's eyes. "Wilson?" he said again, a note of enquiry now evident in his voice. There was no reply, though, and House was suddenly aware of the sound of his own heart racing in his ears. He bent down and placed two fingers against the side of Wilson's neck. "Jimmy? Don't fuck around. Are you still with me?"

"Go away, House," mumbled Wilson, indistinctly, and as his stomach contracted once again he jerked forwards, and heaved the last of its contents onto House's knees.

-- ----- --

Two hours later, Wilson was dozing lightly on a gurney in the clinic, as House and Foreman spoke quietly together on the other side of the room.

Head x-rays and a CT scan had revealed nothing sinister, and Foreman had confirmed the presence of a probable grade 2 concussion. Further x-rays had revealed an uncomplicated Colles fracture to Wilson's left wrist, and the fracture had been reduced. Wilson's arm had been splinted to give the swelling an opportunity to go down, and an appointment had been made for him to return in two days' time for the application of a cast. A small cluster of night nursing staff had somehow congregated at the foot of Wilson's bed, and they stood around now, speaking in low and anxious voices, and casting occasional accusatory glances in House's direction.

Wilson remained lethargic and a little confused, as well as uncharacteristically irritable about the pain in his head and wrist, but Foreman had agreed to release him into House's care. Glancing from House to Wilson, Foreman wasn't sure which of the two of them looked the more upset.

-- ----- --

An hour after that, House manoeuvred Wilson into the bedroom and settled him down on the side of the bed. He stood back, now, and gazed at Wilson, uncertainly. "You're going to need some help with your clothes," he said. "Can you move your arm at all?"

Wilson's left arm was fastened to his chest in a sling, and with his soft, brown eyes staring bleakly out of his pale and still faintly blood-streaked face, a large bandage almost obscuring the left side of his forehead, and more obvious traces of blood spattered across the front of his shirt and pants, he looked more like a small boy who'd taken a nasty fall from his bike than the head of one of the most prestigious oncology departments in the country. The nurses had removed his arm from its shirt sleeve before applying the splint, but the rest of the shirt was still fastened to his right arm, and the whole thing was wrapped around his left shoulder and trapped beneath the sling.

"I think I can manage," Wilson said, but the fingers of his right hand fumbled unproductively with the buttons on his shirt, and it was obvious to both of them that he wasn't going to be able to achieve anything without assistance. With a slightly theatrical grimace, House sat down beside him and pushed his hand away.

"Here," he said. "You're useless. Sit still and let me do it." Wilson capitulated, and House leaned over and unbuttoned his shirt. "Hang in there a moment," he said, and unhooked Wilson's left arm carefully from its bindings, slipping the sling over his head and dropping it into his lap. He reached around Wilson's shoulder, then, and eased the shirt off Wilson's right arm. Finally he slipped the sling over Wilson's head again, and tucked it back into place.

As he worked it occurred to House that he had rarely seen Wilson undressed, and he was suddenly and rather uncomfortably aware of just how soft and warm Wilson's skin was beneath his fingers. He stole a quick glance at Wilson's face, and saw that Wilson had closed his eyes. He looked exhausted, and as House looked a little closer he couldn't help noticing the spread of fine lines that had appeared in recent months under his eyes.

Wilson's eyes flicked open, suddenly, meeting his own, and House looked away, quickly, feeling strangely guilty. Taking a deep breath he recalled himself to the task in hand, and his gaze dropped suddenly to Wilson's trousers. Reaching instinctively for his Vicodin, he shook two out into his hand and swallowed them, fast.

"Ok, sport. You're going to have to help me here," he said, wincing as he reached for his cane and pushed himself to his feet. "Do you think you can get up?"

Wilson placed his right hand on the side of the bed, and stood, swaying slightly. House grabbed him by the arm, and for a moment they leaned against each other while they both attempted to regain their balance. "Ok?" House asked, concerned again, and Wilson nodded.

"Just a bit dizzy," he said. He seemed to hesitate for a moment and then reached towards his belt, and his fingers began to fumble with the buckle.

As soon as it was clear that Wilson wasn't going to manage to unfasten it himself, House sat down on the edge of the bed again and leaned forwards, pulling Wilson's hand aside. He unfastened the belt, unbuttoned Wilson's flies and loosened the zip, looking up at Wilson, then, and closing his eyes briefly before tucking his fingers under the waistband and easing Wilson's pants down and over his hips. Wilson's pants dropped to the floor and pooled at his ankles, and it was only at that stage that both House and Wilson realised that he hadn't removed his shoes.

-- ----- --

90 minutes later, Wilson was established in the bed, asleep at last. House was settled in a chair at his side, legs resting on the bed, a journal in his lap and gazing thoughtfully at Wilson. Considering the toll that the events of the evening had taken on his friend, it had taken him longer than he'd expected to get Wilson to sleep.

Wilson moaned a little now, and shifted restlessly against his pillows. His left eye was purple, and swollen almost shut, and House closed his eyes as he allowed his mind to return to the events of much earlier that evening. The image of Jimmy lying unconscious on the floor – pale, unresponsive, breathing shallowly and covered in blood – was so frighteningly vivid, though, that he opened his eyes again quickly, and shook his head, to try to clear it away.

Leaning forwards, House noticed a small patch of dried blood still adhering to the hair above Wilson's left ear, and he frowned and reached across to the table for a damp cloth, and began to wipe the blood away. Wilson muttered in his sleep, and swung his right arm up, resting it across his face.

House leaned forwards again, wincing, and placed his journal on the bed, lifting his legs to the floor. He reached for his cane and stood up, moved across to the side of the bed and leaned down to take hold of Wilson's wrist, moving it carefully back down to his side. He held onto the wrist for a little while, counting, and then placed his hand on Wilson's chest and began to count again, more slowly this time. After that he allowed his fingers to rest briefly on Wilson's bandaged head, but Wilson turned and moaned quietly again, and House moved his hand away.

House sighed deeply, now, his thoughts returning to the clinic earlier that evening, and to the way that Jimmy had cried out in pain and grabbed for House's hand, as the surgeon had manipulated his wrist. He looked down at Wilson again, and paused. A few moments later, though, he took a seat on the side of the bed, swinging his legs up and shifting carefully across the covers until he could feel the warmth of Wilson's body next to his. He placed his left arm gently around Wilson's shoulders, and pulled him in a little closer. After that he reached for his journal, and began to read.

**The End**


End file.
